


Share Them

by plaisirparkway



Series: Show Me [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (male receiving), (yes virginity is a construct but yeah), Biting, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, F/M, Hand Jobs, Loss of Virginity, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, dom!Geralt, like its not explicitly stated but its there, no y/n, sex teacher!Geralt, sub!Reader, whew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:21:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27824443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaisirparkway/pseuds/plaisirparkway
Summary: “Now?” you ask, with a gentle tone. It’s a lie. There’s nothing gentle about the way you feel or the way you want.“No, girl. Not yet.” He rearranges you, so that he can lean over you on an elbow, watch your face as he thumbs the hollow of your throat. He hums, a pleased sound as his hand skates down your body, stroking so gently that you’re already wriggling.Or: Geralt finally gives you what you've been asking for.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/You
Series: Show Me [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1826374
Comments: 9
Kudos: 135





	Share Them

**Author's Note:**

> alright folks! this wraps up this little....triptych?? idk. I'm sure I'll be back to write Geralt again. please feel free to come yell about the witcher and castlevania with me on tumblr at [plaisirparkway](https://plaisirparkway.tumblr.com/)!

He only let you have more of the kissing part before putting you down for bed. And you only went down because he gave in when you insisted he share it with you. Why not, after everything else you’d shared?

As it turned out, witchers--or at least, Geralt--gave off heat like the fire itself, so you slept in a fine, warm bundle of sheets and skin. 

By the time you woke, it seemed he was at least as resolute in his decision as he had been the night before. He watched you while you bathed, and you did the same, aching at the way he stroked his cock and the muscles of his chest and the way the water and firelight shone on his scars. 

At breakfast, he was not any more talkative than he had been at dinner, but you were at least more relaxed with one another. The tension this time had an air of delight to it. It unspooled over and over again in your stomach, new like the sunlight of the day. 

When your meal is done, he strides over to the door and opens it for the first time in hours. It’s only a crack, but it’s enough to remind you how cold it is out there. And that the snow is at least up to his knees. Maybe more. 

He casts a look back at you that is all annoyed incredulousness.

“Imagine,” you drawl slowly, from where you clear the breakfast dishes, “if you’d tried to ride out with Roach in _that_.” 

He waves a hand in the air, just dismissive enough to make you grin. He is methodical as he dresses against the cold. You watch as he prepares to go out and tend to his horse. At the last second he turns to you and says: “Be naked and waiting in the bed when I return.” 

You’ve never stripped out of your clothes so quickly. 

When he returns you’re waiting, lying on your stomach, chin resting in your palm. He gives you a look, openly thoughtfully and curious. He’d tied his white hair back, and the severe style shows you all the ways the whipping wind has turned the planes of his face (tempting cheekbones and squared off jaw) a faint red.

“What?” you ask, as he strips out of his boots and heavy cloak. 

“My life doesn’t lend itself to creating a home.” he says, slowly. “But just now I thought I could understand it. Why other people do it.” 

“Why’s that?” 

He shakes, a bit like a dog as he takes off the last of his outerwear. “Because my hands are cold and my cock is hard and you’re the answer to both problems.” 

It is a deeply indelicate sound, but you laugh hard and harder still as he gives you the closest thing you’ve gotten to a _smile_ from him. 

He walks over and you rise up on your knees, let him lean down and cup your head as you kiss and kiss _and kiss_ until your brain goes dizzy. Until you’re making noises into his mouth and stroking his chest, pawing at him like a cat. 

The cold of the outside still clings to his clothing, as you ease them off of his body. He helps, and by the time he pulls away, truly, he’s as naked as you are, shirt and pants long forgotten. 

You extend your hand toward his cock, and lift your eyes to his, a silent question. His instruction from the night before: _put your hand on it, put your fucking hand on it_ , comes back to you with a sharp spike of pleasure. 

He inhales, briefly, as you grasp him in hand. “Yes,” he grunts, “that’s good.” 

The head of it is slick, just as before and the wetter your palm as you go, the more he gives you: more noises, more reaction, more pride. 

With a fast, tiny lick, like a cat testing cream, you lean down and lap at the head. He hisses, but doesn’t move as you do more, try more, taste more. Down the length and back up the head. 

“Stop,” he says so fiercely, you immediately pull away, looking up at him querulously. Geralt gazes back at you for a long moment. “Sometimes I think you might be a liar,” he says simply. “With your pretty pink tongue. I think you’re either a born seductress or a practiced one.” 

You snort. “You don’t believe me.” 

“Unfortunately,” he says, humor in his voice. “I do. Open your mouth.” You do, sure to show him your tongue and he eases inside. “Suck.” 

As you do, he slides in and out. He’s salt and sweet skin on your tongue, pushing a little further into your mouth. 

“It feels just as good for me,” he says, though it sounds a bit like speaking takes some effort. “For you to use your mouth on me, as it felt for you, when I did it to you.” 

You try to speak, but there’s nothing to do about it, not with the way the size of him works your mouth open wide. The way the tip has begun to press just a little too far inside. 

“Breathe through your nose,” he says. “I’m going to be very disappointed if I have to stop fucking your face.” 

The whimper that slips out of you is entirely unintentional. But when he says those things, it makes you pulse, makes you wet, makes you out of your mind. 

“You like that,” he says, punctuating the words with a thrust of his hips, “you like when I tell you what I’m going to do to you.” 

His thrust makes you gag, just a little, but for all the discomfort, it makes you more eager. The deeper he goes, the harder it is, the more you want it. 

“You make me want to keep you here,” he says, voice low. “Just to be a ready wet mouth for me.” 

You whimper around him, and feel your body clench and tighten, wetter still between your legs. 

“Ah,” he goes on, quieter still, “you like the sound of that, don’t you? Perhaps I ought to tie you up, keep you. Never let you go.” 

Your brain is foggy, your limbs tense and buzzing when he withdraws, and you cough, realizing how deeply he’d worked his way in. 

“I won’t make you take it all the way,” he says, finally, gently. 

It's a mix of relief and disappointment. He walks away and returns with a cloth. It's only as he cleans you up that you notice how messy you'd become in taking him in your mouth. 

But for how embarrassed you feel to be covered in your spit and his wetness, there's something sweet in it too. The gentleness he uses to clean up your mouth, the cruelness with which he tweaks a nipple. It makes you explode with fresh pleasure. 

He tosses the cloth onto the table and turns back to you. And just like that, things have _changed_. His expression is serious, eyelids drooping low over amber eyes. The very air has changed. Heavy. 

He moves toward you and you draw back, a careful dance. It is more of that cat and mouse. More of that predator and prey. Except you don’t want to run. You want this. Probably more than you’ve ever wanted anything in the world. 

He eases you onto your back, his rough hands gentle with you as he nestles between your thighs. Hard, where you’re soft. You feel your body grow wetter as he kisses you. As his cock presses heavily between your legs. 

“Now?” you ask, with a gentle tone. It’s a lie. There’s nothing gentle about the way you feel or the way you _want_. 

“No, girl. Not yet.” He rearranges you, so that he can lean over you on an elbow, watch your face as he thumbs the hollow of your throat. He hums, a pleased sound as his hand skates down your body, until he cups you between the legs, stroking so gently that you’re already wriggling. 

“Focus,” he says quietly. “Look at me.” 

You do, but you’re certainly not focused on his face. He leans in for another kiss and as your lips touch, he sinks a finger inside. Pleasure blooms in your stomach, like something unfurling inside of you. Hot and all encompassing. You moan into his mouth and he chuckles, slowly moving that finger some more. 

You haven’t even realized that you’ve pulled away until he takes your mouth again, harder more persistently. 

“Focus,” he says again, gently. “I want you to focus on me, and that I want to kiss your mouth, rather than your greedy little cunt.” 

He makes a sound, a self-satisfied _humph_ , feeling you pulse around him because you like it when he chastises, when he calls you greedy, when he says awful words like _cunt_. He takes advantage and wedges another finger inside you, working you open. 

“Do you like this?” he asks but it’s a silly question, with the noises you’re making, with the way you’ve been totally unable to focus on his kisses. You nod, on the verge of asking for _more_ , asking for _harder_. 

He withdraws and slaps you between the legs. Not hard, but hard enough and your pleasure splits off, splintered through with pain. It’s hard to make sense of: it hurts and it doesn’t. It feels awful and it feels amazing. 

“You have words, girl,” he says, nuzzling into the side of your neck. He hasn’t shaven, and a couple days' growth rasps against you. He slaps you between the legs again and it’s _good_. You are a thing of pure raw feeling. Suddenly so aware of everything. 

This big man beside you, the hair spread across his body, muscles enough to destroy you. And yet. There is only pleasure at his touch. At the silk of his hair across one of your shoulders. Of his teeth holding tight on your earlobe. His fingers--now a third!--working into you, opening you, spreading around your wetness. 

“Ah--Geralt please!” 

He whispers in your ear. “I need to get you worked open and wet for me. You need to be able to take me.”

“I’m not worried that you won’t fit,” you say breathlessly and he rises up to gaze at you, expression imperceptible. 

“And why’s that?”

It’s true that he is massive, an unignorable presence in the room. It makes you understand jokes that you’ve overheard in the tavern, men and women brought to raucous laughter by the phrase _a third leg_. 

His fingers keep moving, drawing little gasps from you. “The way I see it,” you say breathlessly, “babes come from the same place. And well, your--c--cock, is very big, but it's not bigger than a babe.” 

He pauses, going completely still. Then, he throws his head back with a bark of laughter, that goes on, shaking the bed, and he laughs harder still when he takes in your face. 

“Gods,” he says, rolling over and slatting his hips between yours, “I cannot wait to fuck you.” 

You nod frantically, and reach down to stroke him. You may not be an expert, but his little hiss, the way his hips jolt into you, make more pleasure spread through you. 

“I think you’re ready,” he says mildly. 

You like this too: the way he moves your bodies, contorts you just so. He grips one of your thighs and lifts your leg, holding you open for him, holding you in place. 

He taps his length against you and a little burst of panic runs through you. For all of your bravado about babes and fit, well, he does suddenly seem much bigger, and you seem very small by comparison. 

“Don’t worry,” he says, face serious. “Watch.” 

He’s slow. Pressing into you with all the speed of new shoots in the springtime. Just the tip, pushing inside, opening you to him, making way for the rest. 

“Oh...oh!” you say as more follows, and it _is_ a stretch. Not wholly unpleasant, but _much_. 

“Are you in pain?” he asked, sounding as though he might be. 

Your breath is gone when you reply. “No, not really, it’s just...I’m very...it’s full.” 

“Yes,” he says, almost sourly. “It’s a fucking tight fit.” 

You’ve not totally missed the conversations at the tavern--you know enough to know that he may sound in pain but he’s far from. _A fucking tight fit_ is rather a good thing. 

He moves, just a little and you both hiss. Geralt leans down to you, until your lips brush. His mouth is too pretty to be set in so firm a line all the time. 

“Focus,” he murmurs, so that you taste the word just before he kisses you. 

You have nothing to compare it to. But you sure do like the feeling of him, parting your lips, gently tasting you. Sensation bleeds into sensation as he rocks between your hips and it isn’t long before you’re moaning, and he can draw out a little and press back in. 

“It’s good?” he asks, but it’s like a question he already knows the answer to. Yes, it’s good, and you can feel your body growing wetter around him. You can _hear_ your bodies coming together. 

You nod, on the edge of one of those moments, of that special pleasure. 

“Now,” he says, “many girls can’t come from just this. Most of the time men don’t care. But you know, don’t you? You know that spot. That helps.” 

You open your mouth to respond and he slides two fingers into it instead, rocking them over your tongue in the same lazy pace he uses between your legs. 

He drops his hand to that special place between your legs, rubbing in slow circles and you cry out as he increases the pace. 

“That’s it, girl. You’re going to come on my cock, aren’t you?”

Embarrassingly, you whimper. You’re going to do _something_. There’s nowhere for all the feeling building inside you, nestled tight between your hips. It seems as though he’s touching you everywhere: there, between your legs, and your hard nipples and around the curve of your backside. 

Can he sense it? Does he know?

“There’s my girl,” he says and bites your throat. His white teeth sink into the tender vulnerable flesh. He could end you here, bite all the way through perhaps, but you can feel his tongue on the other side of your rasping working vocal cords and it’s enough. You fly off, destroyed, wrecked, squeezing down so tightly around him there’s more and more still and you may actually be crying. 

He moans, grunts, faster, harder. Hell, it’s _too much_. “Again, I want it again.” 

“ _No_ ,” you sob, but he bears down again with those wet fingers, spreads them in a vee, and you go again, this pleasure pulled from you, hard won, teetering on the brink of pain that only makes it sweeter.

He swears, again and again and again as he uses your body for his own pleasure. He fists his hands in your blankets as he makes a last great groan and fills you with warmth. 

He drops beside you, curling you to with surprising gentleness. Your bodies immediately stick to one another, sweaty and wet with pleasure. He listens to your sniffle for a moment, coming back to yourself. 

“Don’t cry, girl.” 

“No, no,” you protest weakly. “It was just very good, quite a lot. I wasn’t sure it could be all you promised.” 

He snorts, eyes closing. “Give me a little time. I’ll make good on more promises.” 

“I don’t know if I can handle more than that,” you say, yawning, and nuzzling up to him. You’re going to fall asleep soon as well, you can tell. The crackle of the fire is like a children’s lullaby, and your body is wrung out, completely. You’re little more than wet cloth, drying near the flame.

One of his yellow eyes opens a crack and he gazes down at you. “You’ll take more, won’t you? Because it pleases me.” 

He shakes you with the arm at your shoulders, for emphasis. 

“Yes,” you agree, with hot cheeks, “I will.” 

He closes both eyes again. “Very good.” 

Geralt of Rivia has no mercy for just-recent virgins. He wakes you in the night, for _more_. Brings you with his fingers and his mouth and his cock, now that you’re more accustomed to it. From behind, which you’d thought was just for animals, and he eases you on top of him, though you’d been scared to take him all that way. Again, as the sun rose, sleepily on your sides, with one hand cupping your breast and the other stroking you tenderly between your legs. 

You end up sleeping well into the next day, finding that he’s already built up the fire and may be warming porridge. He grunts, your only sign that he’s noticed you’re awake and gestures to the door with his chin. 

“When the fuck is that going to clear up?”

You rise up on one elbow. “Are you in a hurry to leave?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t like being stuck inside. It’s a fucking chore just to feed the horse.” 

Geralt’s agitation is evident, but you try not to laugh in his face. “You’re only going to be stuck for another day or two.” 

You draw the blankets away and his gaze comes back to you, exposed flesh in the firelight. “I want more practice with my mouth. Come back to bed.” 

He shows you that and much more and by the time the snows have cleared enough for him to move along, you’re sore, but in the best way. 

“I don’t often pass through this way,” he says at your door. “I don’t know that I would be back to--” 

You wave him off. “I understand that you’re trying to be gentle with me. I’m not expecting a proposal. If you’ll recall, I’m done with all that.” 

He frowns. “Only…if that’s what you’d like.” 

You sigh, but happily. “I think, now, I’ll only do what I like.” 

That answer seems to please him. He starts to turn away, but comes back to you for a kiss. He cups your face in his big hands. The callouses you’ve come to know so well. Your body still carries bruises in the shape of his fingertips. He heaves a sigh, and presses his forehead to yours. 

“You did so good for me,” he murmurs, eyes closed. With another sigh, he pulls back and strokes your hair, a touch makes you feel both like a lover and a pet. 

“Just take care of yourself, alright?”

He makes you promise it half a dozen times and steals another kiss (sweeter than it has any right to be). He doesn’t look back as he and Roach make their way down the road.   
  


* * *

  
It’s not quite yet the deepest colds of winter, so you and the horse can bear it as you stand outside and brush out her mane. Laila, as she is called, whinnies with delight when you stroke her nose and feed her an apple. 

You finish by giving her a kiss, and turn toward the road. You can see the figure coming from a long way away. Big, and astride a horse moving with some speed. When he rides up, it is both a great surprise and an expectation. Like a prophetic dream made real. 

Geralt is as handsome as you remember. As broad shouldered and thick-limbed and eyes still like muted sunshine. 

Even as he dismounts, part of you is unsure why he would come. _Why_ he would visit. What business has brought him back to your part of the world? Your village?

What business could have brought him back to your doorstep?

And then he says your name and you know. 

You had contented yourself to thinking of him with fondness and of yourself relegated to a memory, a name strung together with all of the others, lost to time. It was such a pragmatic thought, it didn’t even hurt. He cannot help being long-lived. 

But you know that _you’re_ his business. His reason for returning. You still understand that his life is one of travels and yours is here. You wouldn’t trade it. And yet, he is here too, now, and you cannot help but be grateful. 

“Geralt,” you say in reply, and can’t help the happiness in your voice. 

He only speaks when he is close enough to touch, his face serious. “The inn up the road is full.” 

“Is it?” You bite your lip to stop from smiling. 

“And,” he says slowly, stroking his mare’s nose gently, “I recall you being hospitable to wayward witchers with nowhere to go. Is that still the case? Is there...a man of the house I should be asking?”

“Very little has changed since you were last here. So yes, you might stay.” You pause for drama. You’ve become a better flirt in his absence. “That is, if you don’t mind sharing the bed.” 

You hear and feel him following as you turn to put Laila in the barn. He puts Roach in beside her and turns to you. 

“So, is this all that’s changed then? A new horse?” He takes a step toward you. 

You lift one shoulder and move one step back. “Mostly.” 

His face is sly. “So you haven’t used any of the things I showed you? Any of the lessons you were taught?”

Geralt is stalking you. You can’t wait to be caught. 

“I didn’t say that. I learned many more lessons while you were away.” 

“Is that so?” He pins you to the wall of the barn in one loud movement, your body slamming into the wood and his over yours, one forearm braced above your head. “Are you going to share them?” 

“Have you come here just to check on my studies?” you say, undoing the front of his pants. 

“What sort of teacher would I be if I didn’t keep an eye on your education?” 

He lifts you easily, . “Hurry, Geralt, before the snow blows in.” 

He hums, a rumble up from his chest, as he begins to kiss your cheek and the curve of your neck. “I think it may already be too late. Can’t get back on the road now.” 

“Wouldn’t do for Roach,” you agree. “But I think you should hurry anyway.” 

“What for?” His words are gruff as he drops his face to your cleavage, nipping at the exposed flesh. 

“I’m a desperate girl, Geralt,” you reply, gasping as he works his hand beneath your skirts, strokes your wet flesh. “I think the desperation is reason enough.” 

There’s no warning when he slides into you, but you've been ready for him since you saw him astride his horse, and readier still when he walked that first dangerous step toward you. 

“Welcome back,” you whisper. Your bodies are already moving as one. “There’s so much I want to show you.” 


End file.
